


The Price of Observation

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall-centric, Gen, I'm exploring it okay, Not particularly shippy but inspired by shippy art, POV Blackwall, The Exalted Plains can suck my dick, background adoribull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 10:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18602458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: Blackwall is an observant man. It's a habit that has served him well; it's better to keep an eye on companions and enemies both, especially during war. A private moment witnessed between Inquisitor Trevelyan and Madame de Fer has him reconsidering his penchant for observation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Lady and Her Knight](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/476485) by Star--Nymph. 



> Inspired by and written for @Cullenvhenan and @Star__Nymph on Twitter. Check out Star's Tumblr to see the Blackwall x Vivienne art that spawned this idea in the first place: ["The Lady and Her Knight."](https://star--nymph.tumblr.com/post/184368228326/the-lady-and-her-knight-listen-i-wanted-to-give)

First Enchanter Vivienne, Madame de Fer, is a woman of great power.

It is a fact that Blackwall respects immensely, from as far a distance as he can manage.

Her reserved haughtiness is familiar, and familiarity breeds contempt, or so the saying goes. It doesn’t matter that said power isn’t rightly hers, per se, with her being a mage and all; the world has some distinct thoughts on what mages can and cannot do, what they can and cannot have, but she knows how to get what she wants.

And when what she wants seems to be at odds with the Inquisitor’s plan, he feels rightly intrigued by the scenario. Might not be his business, sure, but he’s put himself between danger and Trevelyan more times than either of them can count; he knows that sometimes it can come from within one’s own ranks.

A powerful person displeased is potentially dangerous, even--or especially--from behind a mask, so he watches.

They’re off a little ways from the fire, pulled away from the bustle of the heart of the camp. Lady Vivienne tilts her head in that way of hers, that regal incline; it’s the one that says she’s doing you the favor of conversing with you, but there’s some new tension to it as they speak. Her hands lift, airily, but he’s heard her admonish Sera for telegraphing her meaning through her hands before.

 _“It’s rude,_ ” Madame had said then. _“Juvenile.”_ She’d earned nug shit in her shoes for that one.

Blackwall watches those slight movements now, the way she leans forward, the way her smile looks too tight, too forced, for her face.

Inquisitor Trevelyan cuts her off with a sharp shake of their head. They frown, say something unheard, and with a wordless apology walks off to speak with the camp officer. It’s the only time he’s seen her visibly shaken, when Trevelyan leaves her blinking after them.

Something isn’t right about that, but Blackwall can’t put his finger on it. He watches her shore up her defenses and adjust her hennin, like it could possibly have shifted without her say-so.

Lady Vivienne turns and catches him staring.

Her face is an impassive mask. He suspects he blushes but doesn’t look away, and she straightens the fall of her long, flowing trousers before departing in the other direction.

=

The sun is high in the sky and blazing like a forgefire overhead as they ride on toward their next destination, hours later. Blackwall takes up his customary position at Trevelyan’s right hand. He spent the day trying--and failing--not to think of the private moment he’d witnessed earlier in the morning.

His curiosity gets the better of him.

“What was that, then, this morning? With Madame de Fer?”

The Inquisitor huffs and shakes their head. “She asked me for the impossible, and I had to tell her ‘no.’ Not an experience I intend to repeat, if I can at all help it, though I stand by my decision.”

Blackwall frowns. “What was it?”

“She asked me to track down and hunt an albino wyvern. Says she needs it for something--a  spell, or potion, or something, something important. Didn’t get too specific, just that she would be ‘much obliged’ if we could put our resources behind the task. But we don’t have a lot of time, and I can’t go crawling through this whole damn region for a single wyvern, especially when our soldiers are being picked off left and right by the Freemen and the Grand-Duke’s forces and the demons and every other damn thing that thinks an Inquisition scout makes for a good lunch.”

They sigh and rub nervously at their left palm. “I try to accommodate everyone’s needs, Blackwall, I really do,” they plead quietly. “I just can’t spare the manpower for wyvern hunting. We have to secure our footholds in the region.”

Blackwall nods absently, staring ahead at the path through the desert before them. They ride together in thoughtful silence. He and the Inquisitor had rarely disagreed--for being so young, Trevelyan has a good head on their shoulders. A good person, this Inquisitor. He’s never regretted signing onto their service, and he hasn’t heard any loud complaints from the others, either. They’d made efforts to help their companions as best as they could. Cassandra had asked for help with tracking down rogue Templar and Seeker leaders; Dorian had them accompany him to Redcliffe on some errand that had them drinking long into the night upon their return. Blackwall himself receives enthusiastic assistance in reclaiming Warden documents and artifacts as they stumble upon them.

Has Vivienne ever asked for anything more than tea together?

“She needs it?” he asks finally

“Yes, but...”

He slants a look at them and watches them shift nervously in their saddle. “Madame de Fer came to you with the request, after months of having asked for nothing more than your companionship?”

Their shoulders drop under his gaze. “...yes, but it’s a _wyvern_. I… I have more people to think of, Blackwall.”

He hums and lets the subject drop, thinking as they ride.

=

Two days later the Inquisitor’s party makes camp some distance away from Keeper Hawen’s small clan of Dalish elves. The Inquisitor has brought gifts, which have gone a long way toward buying the goodwill of their elven neighbors. Blackwall lets himself set up two tents in the low afternoon light before he lets himself stalk toward Trevelyan again.

“I’ll take Iron Bull, Cole, Dorian, and myself,” he says without preamble.

Trevelyan looks up from where they’re bent over the unfurled map of the Exalted Plains. “You’ll--you’ll what?”

He leans over the table and stabs a finger at a roughly sketched in grove to the northeast. “The scouts at this sector’s camp were complaining before we left this morning that they’d run into a nest of wyverns here; the Chargers and Cullen’s troops must’ve kicked a nest while clearing out the rubble and debris. If Madame is looking for a wyvern, chances are it’ll be easiest to find here. I’ll take Iron Bull, Cole, and Dorian.”

“What? Why?”

“Bull, because I’d rather have him in front of me than anywhere else, and his bloodlust is getting the better of him; it’ll help him work off his steam and not threaten to beat anyone bloody. Cole, because he’s sneaky and can mind himself, and just because I don’t know how he does that shadowy thing doesn’t mean it isn’t useful. Dorian, because he’ll relish the opportunity to get one up over Madame and he channels fire magic like he was built for it, undead be damned.”

Blackwall smiles and shakes his head. “He’ll also want the opportunity to show off for Iron Bull and that’ll keep him focused; I put five sovereign on them being camp news before we head back for Skyhold. We’ll be quick and concentrated and get the job done.”

Trevelyan frowns. “You’ve thought this through,” they say. Their mouth presses into a nervous line. “And what if I say no? That I can’t spare them? Can’t spare you?”

Blackwall straightens up to look the Inquisitor in the eye. “I didn’t ask permission.”

=

It’s not for another week before the party reaches the newly-accessible area, the one that Hawen’s people called Ghilan’nain’s Grove in hushed, reverent tones. Blackwall, Bull, Dorian, and Cole all wait outside the eerie archway that separates dry land from marsh, having been given a reluctant blessing from Trevelyan and supplies to give to the sector’s camp.

“Look alive, men,” Blackwall barks, voice carrying over the brackish waters. “Looking for a white wyvern. We’re hauling it back for parts, so we need to make sure we take it down gently.”

“I don’t care if we have to wrap it in ribbons and bows, let’s just get the fucking thing.” Bull nearly vibrated out of his skin when Blackwall recruited him for the task and he doesn’t look any calmer now. His eye almost shines, sharp and glinting in the morning light, and he strides into the knee-high water with the confidence and swagger of a god.

“Yes, yes, rush ahead and get yourself killed, would you?” Dorian snaps, taking two steps for every one of Bull’s. “Not like we need you here to take down the blasted beast. Oh, no, we can do this on our own, so please do get yourself eaten. Perhaps it will serve as distraction enough for a convenient getaway.”

He lets them move ahead, their bickering surely announcing their presence more clearly than any trumpeting fanfare. Cole melts into the space at his side.

“They aren’t really fighting, are they?” the young man asks, nodding at Dorian and Bull’s backs. “Even when they snipe and swear, it doesn’t hurt. They each hurt, sharp and thorny and heavy, but the fighting makes it... better? How does it make it better?”

Blackwall claps a hand on Cole’s thin shoulder. “You’ll understand when you’re older, my boy,” he says.

Cole only nods. “When I’m older...” he agrees tentatively, and Blackwall smiles.

=

In hindsight, convincing Trevelyan to do this with the full strength of their party would have made for an easier time. A better decision, at any rate. At the end of the day they had killed not one, not two, but three wyverns before finding the elusive white one, and stumbled into a set of sulphuric pools that served as home to a dragon.

Bull had offered to blow him right there “for such an _awesome_ gift” when the dragon’s trumpeting screech pierced the relative calm of the fen. Blackwall had to gently--but firmly--redirect that energy toward surviving the encounter. Dorian’s gaze threatens to bore a hole in the back of his head enough on the most mundane of days and he isn’t about to get himself into whatever strange and hostile courtship they had found themselves in. Blackwall values his body parts exactly where they are and doesn’t need the pompous mage rearranging them for him.

If the wyverns were barn cats, the dragon was a full-blown lion, and they’d come to too many close calls in the fight. Not for the first time Blackwall regretted recruiting Dorian and not Solas; Dorian is absolute shit at healing magic.

 _“I can keep you… not dead,”_ Dorian had supplied through pinched lips. _“Relatively speaking.”_

Of course the necromancer wasn’t a healer. Blackwall prayed the potions would work. 

They had left the horse and wagon at the camp earlier that morning as the ground was too uneven for the wheels and he regrets it more each step. Blackwall curses every stray rock and ridge in the fen that cracked at his feet as they dragged the white wyvern’s hulking corpse through the marshy waters. The dragon had to be left behind, as did the other wyverns, but the four of them had hauled the bodies as close to dry, accessible land as they could get. Blackwall would send the camp scouts to finish the job, to recover as much usable materials from the beasts and scatter the remains to minimize the danger of drawing attention to the Inquisition camp.

 _“Keeps them busy,”_ Bull had agreed, hacking a tooth out of the dragon’s mouth with his massive great-ax. The sight of Iron Bull halfway into the thing’s mouth left Blackwall queasy, like he’d eaten some of Cole’s cooking again, and he turned away with a twinge of his stomach. Now Bull helps carry the tail end with Blackwall at the head and Cole and Dorian wrangling its limbs as best they can.

“Remind me never to go anywhere with you ever again,” Dorian grouses. He curses a streak blue and salty enough to make any sailor proud when he slips into the much, adding another layer of grime to his formerly-fancy coat.

Bull laughs. It sounds like the dragon’s roar. “That aimed at me or Blackwall?”

“You, him, the Maker, anyone, everyone. I’m going back to Skyhold and never leaving my damn room ever again. Really, the things I do for you people—”

“You know you like it—”

“Camp ahead,” Blackwall calls sharply over his shoulder, and it can’t come soon enough. The sexual tension fizzles but, unfortunately, doesn’t fade when scouts run out to meet them, just as surprised and aghast at their survival as they are. His ribs and shoulder are on fire and he wonders with growing unease if today might be the day he finds out whether the Maker exists or not.

He drops the wyvern and water rushes up the length of his boots to soak his feet. Blackwall grimaces. Every bone in his back will kill him, he just knows it, and these socks and boots, gifts from Trevelyan, are both surely a lost cause after all the blood and guts he’s churned through. He helps the young men and women stationed in the grove help haul the wyvern into the canopied shell of the wagon, strapping the massive beast in as much as can be done before Dorian covers it with a thick shell of ice.

=

“So tell me, what had your panties in such a twist that we had to go kill half the creatures living in this swamp? Not that I’m complaining, of course. Been a nice change of pace.”

“You trying to proposition me again?”

Iron Bull chuckles into his stew. It’s surprisingly good, for being wyvern meat. Blackwall shudders and pushes the sudden memory of Bull drenched in dragon blood, laughing through a mouthful of the stuff, from his mind.

“Nah,” Bull says with a smile and a downright blasphemous eyebrow waggle, “though the offer’s still open if you change your mind.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Blackwall shoots back drily. He pokes at his stew. “It just had to be done, I suppose. Couldn’t let it stand. Plus,” he says, pragmatic, “our boys couldn’t hold their own against the beasts. Needed a big, bad, dragonslayer to come save the day.”

“Now see, when you say shit like that, you’re giving me all sorts of mixed signals.” Bull smiles, all teeth, his eye gleaming. He preens. “I knew you only liked me for my body.”

Blackwall laughs and earns a scowl from Dorian where he scrubs the remaining dried blood from his arms at the small bathing barrel.

=

Sleep proves to be an elusive thing. He puts his back to the smouldering fire and finds himself staring at the frozen beast laid up in the wagon. What could Madame want with it? What kind of magic uses something as impressive as a wyvern?

Why does it continue to bother him that he didn’t know, that he looked into it at all?

He isn’t sure he wants to know, all things considered. His curiosity, and the worsening pain in his side, keeps him company through the night.

=

Morning comes all too early, staining the sky a bloody pink. A raven has come in the night in answer to one sent the day before, confirming the location of their rendezvous with Trevelyan and their remaining Inner Circle. They leave after breakfast.

“Do you think there’s room for one more in there?” Dorian asks longingly when the wagon creaks in protest. Bull laughs.

Blackwall prays for a quick, quiet journey.

=

They regroup just outside Fort Revasan, which isn’t as far from the Grove as Blackwall originally counted on. The four of them brief their team on their successes. Trevelyan’s face goes pale at the description of the hours-long dragon fight.

An arrangement gets hammered out between Revasan’s commanding offer and Trevelyan: some of the wyvern meat and materials in exchange for housing at the fort, with the Inner Circle supplementing the Fort’s defenses while Marshal Proulx sends a team to haul back their bounty. Blackwall’s just glad there’s somewhere he can sit and nurse his wounds; his side is swollen and burning, and his shoulder’s not much better, even after field triage with Iron Bull. A fever burns across his brow.

“You didn’t tell me there was a dragon in the area,” Trevelyan says, cornering Blackwall at the field medic’s tent. They watch as the medic wraps his ribs and shoulder before stalking over to him. “A dragon, Blackwall! You didn’t--I could have—”

“Would it have changed anything?” he asks, and he softens when Trevelyan flounders at the obvious answer. “If it helps, I didn’t know, either. No one really expected it, but we had to put it down. It was too close to our camp to ignore.”

They shake their head. “You’re a good man, Warden Blackwall,” they say, a little mournfully. “A braver person than I am, at any rate.” Trevelyan sighs. “I’ve told Madame Vivienne about the wyvern, and how you’re to thank for it. She did that thing she does, the one with her eyebrows, and walked away like I don’t exist. I think she’s mad at me.”

“Probably. What are you going to do about it?”

They wince. “Grovel?”

“Good start. Follow that up with helping her harvest whatever it is she needs from the beast. That should go a long way of smoothing things over.”

Trevelyan looks at him with genuine fear and it’s in this moment that he remembers that, for all the responsibilities hanging on their shoulders, the Inquisitor is just barely into their twenties. Nothing at Ostwick could have prepared them for this kind of madness. He sighs. “I’ll help,” he offers, and Trevelyan shakes their head.

“I’m the one that offended her and ignored her request for help,” they say, “so I should be the one to do whatever she needs.” Their nose wrinkles in a grimace. “It’s gonna be gross, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Blackwall laughs weakly, the noise dissolving into a wheeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr link for chapter: ["The Price of Observation [1/2]"](https://ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com/post/184448168221/the-price-of-observation-12)


	2. Chapter 2

Blackwall watches the soldiers run through their drills on the second full day he’s been in the fort. They’re beaten and battered from the mass of undead that had met him and the others at the gates and along the walls at their arrival, but they’re alive and all the more thankful for it. Not too long ago this was his life. It could have been him down there wearing the Grand Duke’s colors, fighting in a war for someone else’s crown, someone else’s throne. 

He feels, rather than sees, Madame de Fer’s approach. It’s something he’d noticed from her from the start, the way she seemed to make the very air grow heavy and ponderous. He’d wondered about it, whether it was an innate trait or something she must have done on purpose, but with the only real options for education being either Solas or Dorian, he kept his observations to himself. 

“I was unaware that the Exalted Plains were such a lively area for a huntsman,” she says. She doesn’t lean against the rampart walls like he does, but on the other hand, she doesn’t have three broken ribs and a fucked shoulder, either. He grunts and shrugs, grimacing when the motion pulls at his side. 

“You needed a wyvern,” he replies. Two soldiers bash themselves near bloody by accident below on the makeshift training ground, and Blackwall finds himself leaning further forward, as much as his injuries allow, grinning at the insults their commander spews. “Oh, that hurts. She’s creative, that one, I’ll give her that.” 

“You speak Orlesian, Warden Blackwall?” 

He blinks and at once he’s thirty again, a decorated captain bedecked in his own mask. Thom Rainier stares him in the face in his mind’s eye, cocksure and arrogant. Blackwall shakes his head and shrugs once more. 

“A little,” he supplies, tight-lipped, and he doesn’t know what to make of the way Madame hums to herself beside him. “You’ve got to be able to communicate while recruiting.” 

“Mm. I thought I had heard your recruitment was conducted in Ferelden. I must have been misinformed.” 

His stomach curls in on itself. “All sorts of folks live in Ferelden, Madame de Fer,” he says, “even Orlesians, much to everyone’s chagrin.” 

“Indeed.”

He ignores the way his skin chafes under his collar. She isn’t even looking at him and everything in him panics. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished. He should have convinced Trevelyan to go wyvern hunting themself and take on Madame’s attention. 

“Forgive me for prying, but why is it that you haven’t sought out a healer for your injuries?”

Her question jars him out of his thoughts. Blackwall glances sidelong at her; she doesn’t look at him but he knows she’s still watching. Waiting. “The soldiers get antsy with the mages around. You know how Orlesians can get.” He hazards that last bit and is rewarded with a small smile. 

“That I do,” she murmurs. She gives a delicate sniff, a small shift where she stands. “Come along, Warden. It seems I owe you a debt, and I do not suffer favors for long.” 

“You really don’t have to. We’re heading out soon enough, and the medic’s doing a fine enough job. We need all our resources and efforts focused on the mission, for when we get back out there.” 

“And we need our teammates in prime condition to protect and serve, do we not?” she shoots back. Madame de Fer turns to him, one elegant brow arched. “Or would you leave yourself, and by extension the whole team, vulnerable to attack?” 

Blackwall frowns. “But—”

She holds up her hand. “If you think a simple healing spell will deplete my abilities, I will remind you that I am not our wilting Tevinter orchid of a colleague. Now come--I will hear no argument.” 

His frown deepens but he peels himself away from the wall and follows her sharp footsteps toward the quarters she had commandeered during their stay. She ushers Blackwall into the small private room.

He stands awkwardly, right arm clutched to his side. She motions him to turn, and like some confused pony he does. Blackwall can’t rightly say why, other than because she said so; it’s not like they are friends, or even friendly in their dealings together. He can’t say with certainty that he trusts her any more than any other of their associates. Respect, yes, in spades. Madame is good at what she does, and he’s watched her surge to the front line of a skirmish with that blazing sword of hers more times than he’d like to admit. 

It’s an interesting thing, watching a mage fight. It’s not like the guts-and-glory assault that swordsmen usually throw out, but it’s not calculated in the same way as the archers he’s known. Vivienne gets more in-your-face than he’d expected at first, her sword a beacon of light on the field. She doesn’t fight like Dorian, who flings fire as easily as breathing, and is nothing like Solas, who channels whatever it is the Rift gives him, but they’re really the only comparison he has for magical battle tactics, so he studies them all. It’s a good habit, to learn your colleagues’ styles, to hone and build strategies for fighting alongside each other, no matter one’s talents. It gets them home every night, so he watches. 

And now  _ she _ watches him. 

“Did the medic set your shoulder, or did you do that yourself?” she asks, lips pulling into a thoughtful line. Her footsteps are soft on the stone floor as she steps toward him.

He grunts. “Did it myself, with Bull’s help. Might’ve torn something, though; the medic wasn’t sure and couldn’t rightly say, but it’s been a thorn in my side as much as my ribs.” 

Madame tilts her head. It’s like being watched by a hawk, he thinks, the way her eyes move over him. Or an owl, bright eyed and wise and full of restrained power. 

“Remove your gambeson and tunic.” 

Blackwall doesn’t immediately follow the direction, and she raises one elegant brow. “Madame—” 

A twitch, a barely-there shift, cuts him short. 

“Blackwall.” It’s soft, simple, just a breath of a word, and it lives in the silence of the room--a shallow rebuke, unspoken admonition. 

Jaw tight, he works off his gambeson. It’s hard to do one-handed, but he hadn’t let anyone help him into it, and he wasn’t going to let anyone help him out of it. Madame Vivienne made no move to offer, not that he would have accepted. One by one the buttons come undone, the toggles pull free of their ties. He shrugs it off with a grimace to leave himself in a worn, thin tunic, and discards that with a huff when she nods. Some sense of modesty urges him to fold the garments before he places them upon the nearby bureau.

That instinct must have been the correct thing, for she gives a muted half-smile, just a slight twist of her lips, the relaxation of her brows. Lady Vivienne closes the last gap between them. Her hands glow with power. 

Blackwall can’t help but tense when those hands meets his shoulder, one forward and one behind. “Relax,” she tells him, but his focus narrows to the pulse of healing energy slinking into the joint, to the prod of her fingertips over his skin. Tendons knit and bruises evaporate, and soon his shoulder is younger than the rest of his body, spry and smooth in its motions. 

“You have good instincts.” The murmured words ghost over his skin. “I am not surprised the fortress’ field medic could not accurately assess your injury; you had torn the ligaments and muscles both.” 

He grunts and rolls his shoulders for the first time in a week. “He’s a busy lad. Can’t be right all the time.” He lifts his right arm at her direction and hisses at the contact of her hands on his ribcage. “Careful…” 

She quirks a brow at him and tsks before turning back to the injury. Power pours into his ribcage, filling the spaces and hollows between. He can feel and hear the bones grind against each other as they shift, pulled back into place at her insistence. Blood rushes to his head at the sensation. 

“...there,” she says, pressing to check for any lingering hurts. “You’re ready to use yourself as a human battering man once more.” 

“My thanks, Lady Vivienne.” Blackwall checks his ribs himself when she steps back. He almost misses the slight frown that dances across her face. 

“I am not a Lady, Warden Blackwall,” she admonishes lightly. “Such flattery, while well-intended, is simply incorrect. It does not do.” Vivienne pauses a moment. “It is Enchanter Vivienne, Court Mage to the Empire of Orlais—”

Blackwall finishes for her. “--or Madame de Fer. What? I have ears,” he says defensively, warding off the censuring lift of her eyebrows. “I listen.” 

“Mm. I would remind you that it is uncouth to interrupt, my dear, had I suspicion it would stick. If you had allowed me to finish, you would have heard a third option. Simply Vivienne will do. You have slain a dragon on my behalf, after all. Such a trophy does tend to make one familiar.” 

He snorts. "Is that all it takes?"

"A fairy tale arrangement, for sure," Vivienne says drily. She smiles, and he freezes. 

Has he ever seen her actually smile? Blackwall isn't sure. It's disorienting. 

He shakes himself and pulls on his clothes once more. A quick bow and he's out of the room, all but colliding with the young woman who found herself pressed into delivering Vivienne's tea service. He's still fumbling with the toggles of his gambeson. It looks like--

Blackwall blushes and mutters his apology. Long strides take him far from the room and back to the ramparts. 

The soldiers had quit the training field, leaving him alone with the lingering memory of Vivienne's smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr link for the chapter: ["The Price of Observation [2/2]"](https://ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com/post/184448337451/the-price-of-observation-22)
> 
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